Grayturday

I went to Nordstrom on Gray Saturday.

Gray Saturday, or “Grayturday” to shopping aficionados, is the Saturday before Thanksgiving. Shoppers who shop on Gray Saturday are well-known for being too chicken to shop on Black Friday, and insist on paying full price so as to get the best stock before the lunatics hit the stores a week later. Stores owe us a debt, because we get them into the “gray” before they get into the “black” after Thanksgiving.

They’re welcome

So literally and semantically speaking, Grayturday is grayter than Black Friday, and lives up to its name.

After I grabbed a few items for my boys in men’s wear, I wandered upstairs to women’s fashion. Not really looking for anything specific, I meandered through the aisles. Shapeless dresses, check. Frump wear, check. Natty old lady suits, check. Size zero cocktail dresses, elastic waistband sweatpants, amorphous tent dresses.

Check check check.

There wasn’t even anything to drool over. No jewel-toned body con dresses, no neutral colored dolman sleeve knit blouses with matching skirts, no sharp double-breasted blazers with festive print blouses.

Nothing feminine, nothing body conscious, just…gender neutral sleep wear.

I finished my first circuit of women’s wear in a record time of five minutes, and as I began my second circuit, I started to feel paranoid, like I was being watched.

The mannequins were staring at me. Androgynous, hairless and mostly naked, like Sphynx cats, or those women who take keto too far, they held vigil over the second floor. Some were clothed but wearing shapeless ill-fitting garments falling off of their prepubescent bodies, exposing clavicles and disturbingly dramatic thigh gaps. There was nary a curve to be seen. No breast mounds, no cleavage, no muscles, or fullness, or femininity, or life force.

Just skeletons and zombies, looking in desperate need of a sack of double burgers, truffle fries and extra thick chocolate shakes.

Feeling unnerved, I opted out of a second circuit, and headed to the shoe department. Shoes make everyone happy, and even Sphynx cats can fit into kitten heels. But on the front-facing displays, there were no grownup women’s shoes. No sling-backs. No stilettos. No pumps, ankle booties, wedges, or Mary Janes. None of the shoes that make women feel and look sexy (yes, I said it).

Plenty of Uggs, though, and slippers, and big overstuffed blankets tied with red bows.

More loungewear.

“May I help you?” A lovely young salesgirl smiled at me encouragingly.

“No thanks. I’m headed to lingerie.”

Back up the escalator to the second floor, all the while avoiding the bald zombie gazes, I headed to lingerie, took a deep breath and smiled.

Finally. My world.

Bustiers, bras, garter belts, teddies, baby doll dresses. Lace, silk, thongs, boy shorts. Lavender, rose, emerald green, purples, even a splash of canary yellow.

I had reached my nirvana.

After I splurged on some beautiful lingerie, I descended the escalator and felt the mannequins staring at me combatively. I opened up my Nordstrom bag, pulled out a black bustier, and waved it in front of their faces.

Suck on that, skinny bitches.